


Dreams

by 37h4n0l



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gore, M/M, THIS FIC IS ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING, borderline dubcon, spare yourself if you have any sensitivities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Angelo has dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, am I ashamed of myself. IN MY DEFENSE, I felt really bad while writing this. Dedicated to those nasty sinners in the 91 days groupchat.

Sometimes Angelo has dreams.

In these figments of his imagination, a complete disconnection from himself takes place, as if he couldn’t understand the world around him or even his own story, past, present and future. Allegedly, dreams are a turbid remix of recent events or thoughts in the person’s life. It seems to make sense; the places are familiar, Nero is always there, even the atmosphere is the same. And yet, the bizarre ways Angelo’s mind can contort these elements separate the world of dreams from reality very harshly. 

Angelo dreams, and Nero is standing in front of him in some room they might have once stopped in for a night. It’s hard to focus on his face with such a heavy feeling in the head, especially when his chest is heaving so much in front of him. Angelo is at a distance that would feel uncomfortably close in real life. He wouldn’t so much as poke Nero with a finger if it wasn’t necessary, and now it dawns on him that it might be an unconscious will of self-restraint. 

He stretches a hand out and reaches and reaches and reaches, and- There, he’s finally in contact with the damp, sweaty fabric of his shirt, but he keeps pushing, physical matter unraveling in his fingers’ way. Nero is almost impassive, barely wincing. There’s an uncomfortable, squishing sound as Angelo breaks his skin and works his way inside the soft, warm tissue. Something inside keeps telling him that he should be disgusted, but the nausea isn’t hitting him just yet. He sinks his hand farther into the flesh. There’s blood gushing out from the wound in large streams, a new wave spurting all over Angelo’s shirt sleeve each time he moves.

He finally finds it. That big, uneven bundle of muscle that keeps Nero alive. Angelo’s eyes dilate in a newly gained interest as he finally manages to wrap his fingers around it, detaching it from the pericardium and reveling in the feeling of it beating in his hand. It’s Nero’s heart, right there, this mere organ he had desired to crush so much, a little machine that fuels the person he hates the most. He’s been wondering about his obsession with Nero, actually. He’s just one target of his revenge, and yet, he angers Angelo so much more than the others. He squeezes, his digits digging into the clump, and he feels the heartbeats fasten as his enemy’s eyes fill with panic only now. 

Then he pulls. There are some veins attached, but Angelo collects all his strength and lets them slowly snap, one by one. His blood-drenched hand, along with the organ, is halfway between them. There are a few shapeless strips of flesh connected to it, which ultimately part from Nero’s heart, only to splash onto the floor, creating an undefined mess. Nero doesn’t even look angry; his expression is just ordinary, that of someone who’s staring out the window on a rainy day or is waiting for something to happen. A meek and passive expression. One that, on second thought, he hardly ever wears. 

Angelo begs the violence in him to come back. It’s become a bad habit of him, to soften like this, and it makes him want to vomit. So he contracts his fingers around the heart even more, watching Nero wince in pain. He could probably squelch it into multiple pieces if he wanted to, but he prefers to stare instead. He observes the smooth, wet muscles and sinews, still moving as if they were in their ordinary place. 

He lifts his trophy up and imagines what Nero must see now. His own heart, fresh and beating, only Angelo’s eyes peeking out from behind it. He know what his eyes look like, he’s seen people getting intimidated by them, including Nero. And he does look shaken up, indeed. Angelo brings the organ closer to himself, and the corners of his lips curl up when he notices the shock on the other man’s face. He takes a lick.

Unsurprisingly, it tastes like blood, with a strange undertone probably given by the lymph circulating between tissues. Angelo decides that he likes it, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to proceed in his plan of ruining Nero’s sanity before his body. Speaking of which, the latter behaves like it’s intact. Nothing betrays the figure standing in front of him, if not his expressions and small gestures, because he isn’t writhing in agony; not even his knees have buckled. Angelo sinks his teeth in slowly, only to abruptly tear out a piece. He fights the bile and the tears and he chews the piece of meat in defiance. Nero feels something, he can see it. He’s getting paler and his face is contorting in small twitches. Maybe watching this was the last straw. 

Angelo swallows. A piece of raw meat, he tells himself. Nothing else. Even better; an object sliding down his throat. Matter. Substance. Its provenance isn’t that relevant, it’s just billions of interconnected atoms arranged in a certain manner. Just a thing like any other, swallowed by him. Something moving from one place to another in space, without ethical connotations. He bites off another piece as an effort to train himself, and it goes down much more easily. With every clamping of his jaw, it starts feeling more and more like food. Nero is sweating and his legs are trembling, but he still hasn’t even opened his mouth. His muteness is so angering that Angelo gulps down the rest of the heart in one go and stares at him in resentment, panting hard. 

There are other dreams, too. Or maybe it’s just a different scene from the same dream. When Angelo is not hurting, killing or dissecting, he’s shoved against a wall, a hand slightly stronger than his own encircling his neck. Just like Nero doesn’t talk or scream when he’s being subjected to some kind of brutal torture, Angelo stays quiet at the sound of a buckle behind him. He knows all too well what he’s supposed to do in this situation; he has to shove Nero away, kick him, hit him, bite him, anything to remove his invasive presence. Instead, he’s willing and feeble in his hands, and he lets Nero fuck him hard and rough, to the point of being hurt. 

Angelo still hears that ever-present voice of guilt in his head he tries to repress every day without success, but when Nero’s cock penetrates him and he grits his teeth at the burning sensation, the invasive thoughts seem to fade. He doesn’t know if it’s Nero or the voice, but someone or something talks.

“You killed Vanno.”

He pushes back to engulf more of Nero’s length and feels the other man grab him by the hair. His hips slap against Angelo’s ass, creating some rather obscene sounds, and the Lagusa starts to think he might be bleeding too. He finds himself enjoying the pain. Yes, he killed Vanno; he’s a murderer and would deserve much worse than this. 

“Frate is dead too, because of you.”

Angelo starts to wonder why his body isn’t coming undone the way Nero’s did before his fingertips. He can’t even feel disgusted by himself anymore when he notices how hard he is, how much he’s getting off on this surreal, imaginary scenario of his. The real Nero would look sad, shocked and disappointed instead of violating him like this, pounding him into a wall like a rabid animal. 

“If your family’s murderers stained their hands with blood, you outright drenched yours in it.”

It’s too much. Angelo cries out, breaking the silence, knowing that he’s doomed: the noise transforms into a much more realistic shout, waking him. His eyes snap open. He’s lying in his bed, sheets sticking to his bare, sweaty torso. Nero is sleeping merrily a few meters from him. 

Sometimes Angelo has dreams, and he always wishes they would last longer, so he doesn’t have to return to this world. A world where he’s stuck between wanting to commit sins and to repent for them, thus ending up doing none of the two. He looks at his enemy once again, wild images still flashing in his mind. He wants to climb in Nero’s bed, unsure whether to grab his neck to suffocate him or to pull down his pants and ride his cock. Angelo does none of the two, obviously. 

Nero turns around and opens his eyes, as if those thoughts about him were harsh enough to even wake him. They stare into each others’ eyes for a moment, then the Vanetti smiles innocently and dozes off again.

Killing him almost sounds like an absurd idea right now.


End file.
